Orb Sceptre Throne (72 page)

She rolled her eyes. ‘So you keep sayin’.’

‘It’s true.’

‘Sure it is.’ She pushed him to the rear door of the row-house. ‘Try to get some more work. We’re not living off the fat of the hog here.’

He found the man sitting at their small table, the chair pushed far back to make room for his round stomach. ‘Make yourself at home,’ Barathol said.

‘Why, thank you! I shall and did. I could not help but also notice that your pantry possesses remarkable potential for filling … When might this be accomplished? Soon, I hope?’

Barathol pulled out their one other chair and sat heavily. He considered for a moment and then said, ‘I do the cooking here.’

‘Excellent! Then I certainly am speaking to the most important person here. I would like eggs. Poached. And a roasted bird, preferably plucked beforehand. Or a roasted bird still containing its eggs. Whichever is quicker, speed being the operational consideration here. Efficiency.’ He rested his pudgy hands on his stomach, grimacing.

Barathol crossed his arms, stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. They reached halfway across the narrow main floor. ‘I cook over the forge I built in the yard.’

The eager moon-round face fell. ‘Oh dear. How unappetizing.’ A hand flew to his mouth. ‘I can’t believe that word passed my lips. You say you actually cook over the fire? How primal. No wonder you are favoured by Burn.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Nothing. You wouldn’t have something, though, would you?’ He pinched his thumb and forefinger together. ‘Just a smidgen of a biscuit or a cut of lamb? Roasted, on a stick? A kebab? Yes, a kebab would be nice. Forge-roasted, perhaps?’

‘No. Nothing.’

‘Aiya! You are merciless! Is Kruppe to perish? Very well! You win, O ruthless bargainer. You may have the villa.’

Barathol frowned. ‘The what?’

‘Why, the villa outside the city. Cliff-top, with a view over Lake Azur, of course.’

‘A villa? What for?’

‘Dear Soliel! Isn’t that enough?’ The man pressed his hands to his straining waistcoat. ‘I swear I have diminished. In the name of all that is civilized, relent!’

Barathol studied the sweaty, rotund figure. His black hair was so lacquered it looked like no more than a layer of pitch paint slathered across his head. Delicate curls descended on to his forehead but these too were pasted down as if glued. The man’s arsenic-white pallor was almost shocking in its contrast. While he watched, the fellow wiped his heavy jowls with a handkerchief so grey and grimed it seemed to do nothing more than reapply the shine of oil.

‘Is there anyone at all like you, Kruppe?’ he murmured wonderingly.

‘What?’ The fellow sat up straighter. The curve of his stomach pressed against the table. ‘Another Kruppe? Why, such excess of excellence would contravene fundamental laws of creation. Or would that rather be a case of excellent excess? Nay, sir! Think of the poor ladies alone. Imagine what it would do to their respiration. They would not know which way to turn.’

‘Quite,’ Barathol agreed sotto voce.

‘No, such dreams will have to wait. Yet what comportment such a one would possess. What élan. It would be a rare privilege to meet such a one, yes? Although …’ He tapped a short pudgy finger to his lips, his gaze distant. ‘How infuriating this paragon would be in his habit of always being right. His insufferable good looks. His intellect and generosity! No! I would hate him immediately and scheme for his downfall, of course.’

Blinking, the little man regarded Barathol anew. ‘Is that squash? I swear I smell yellow squash. Sliced thinly and roasted over a high open heat. Such as that which may be possessed by a forge. For example.’

Barathol shook his head. ‘No. No squash.’

‘May the gods forgive such ruthlessness. The very thought. No squash indeed. Very well.’ He pushed up his loose frilled sleeves and set his hands flat on the table. ‘The villa, a nursemaid, housekeeper, groom and valet. And that is my final offer.’ The handkerchief dabbed at mouth and brows and the fellow deflated, limp, in his chair as if utterly spent, eyes shut, arms dangling loose.

Barathol cleared his throat. He didn’t know whether to laugh or throw the man out. He took a long breath. ‘For what, Kruppe?’

One eye cracked open. ‘Why, for forging something, of course. Really, if I wanted shoes I would have gone next door.’

Barathol cocked his head. ‘I do shoes, Kruppe. That’s mostly what I do these days. Used to do swords but fashions change. Had to move to smaller premises. You want a dent beaten out of a pot? I’m your man. You want fine expert work? Try the guild.’

Kruppe sat up, straightened his crimson waistcoat. ‘I remove my own dents, thank you very much. And I do not understand why anyone would wear iron shoes. Fashion does drive us to awkward choices, however, does it not? I will send a carriage. In the meantime, here are some papers that have recently come into my care.’ He laid a folded packet on the table. ‘Now I must take this opportunity to escape before even greater demands are made, terms raised, or outrageous conditions imposed – squash or no squash! Good day!’ He threw his chin high and marched out.

Barathol eyed the packet for some time before letting out another breath and uncrossing his arms. He broke the wax seal and scanned the papers. He couldn’t read them but they certainly looked official. They might be a title. Or a bordello’s taxation report. He couldn’t tell. He’d have to take them to the scribe on the corner who wrote letters for everyone in the neighbourhood.

He tapped them against the table and eyed the door to the rear yard. He’d have to be damned quiet about it. He slipped the papers into his shirt.

So it had come to this. All her struggle. Her long journey. Failure. Abject loathsome failure once again. She leaned on her staff and ran a hand through her sweaty hair, squinting in the constant stabbing glare of the quicksilver Vitr sea. Twice with the same man. That had got to be some kind of record. She’d let down Agayla – not to mention the Enchantress. And what trouble might come of that? She dreaded to think of the possible consequences.

Yet further options existed. More extreme alternatives. Tayschrenn didn’t even seem to remember he was a mage and so he would pose no trouble. The only hurdle would be the man’s shadow, Korus. And she and Leoman together might be able to handle him. That left those countless little wretches, and for her there lay the problem. They would surely crowd to his defence and she would be forced to strike them down.

And that she could not bring herself to do. It would be like attacking children. She just couldn’t imagine it.
Gods! Defeated by my own principles
. Well, perhaps that wasn’t such a bad thing after all. The Queen of Dreams could hardly fault her for that. She tapped the butt of the staff in the black sands, then swung it up over her shoulders and went to find Leoman.

He was asleep, curled up on his side.
Just like a boy. How does he do that? Sleep so soundly? It’s like he’s at peace
. An idea that jarred against what she knew of the man. She tapped his foot and he jerked, then stretched and blinked up at her. ‘Yes?’

‘All right. You win.’

He leaned up on one elbow and arched a brow. ‘Win? Me?’

‘Yes. There’s no point in staying. We should go.’

He stood and brushed at his clothes, picked up his armour, threw his belted morningstars over a shoulder. ‘So. You’re going,’ he said.

‘Me? What do you mean me?’ She motioned to the shore. ‘Might as well say goodbye.’

‘Yes.’

On the way to the sea Leoman said, ‘You know, I find it very relaxing here. Restful. It reminds me of the deep desert. I always felt comfortable there. It was just the people who occupied it I objected to.’

The moment they drew close to where Tayschrenn stood at the shore, the tribe of shambling malformed creatures he’d rescued from the Vitr gathered around protectively. Giant Korus strode to intercept them on its odd backward-bending legs.

‘What do you intend?’ it demanded.

‘We’ve come to say goodbye,’ Kiska answered. ‘We’re going.’

‘Goodbye? Farewell? You are leaving?’

‘Yes.’

The creature’s finger-long fangs grated like knives as it seemed to consider such a thing. It glanced over to where Tayschrenn was approaching from the glimmering surf. ‘Very well. But I will be watching.’ It lumbered aside.

‘What is it?’ the ex-mage called. ‘I asked you to trouble us no more.’

Kiska bowed. ‘Yes. Just come to say farewell. We are leaving.’

‘I see.’ He pushed back his long grey-shot hair, crossed his arms. It seemed to Kiska that he did appear younger. The harsh lines about his mouth and eyes had eased; gone was the watchfulness and guarded wariness from his gaze. Reborn in truth?

‘Safe journey then,’ he said. ‘I bear you no ill will.’

‘Yes. But perhaps some time from now—’

He’d raised a forestalling hand. ‘No. I will never return to that. Tell whoever sent you to leave me alone.’

‘Yes.’ Kiska struggled against the tightness in her chest. ‘There is just this. I understand this is yours.’ She held out the crumpled stick and cloth remains of their guide.

He took it into his palm and studied the dry bundle of litter. ‘What is it?’

‘I don’t know exactly – but I was told it belongs to you.’

‘I don’t want …’ His voice fell away as he seemed to lose his concentration.

Korus leaned close, looming over them all. ‘Thenaj – what is this thing? Throw it away!’

But the man’s hands clenched into fists around it, his body convulsing. He would have crashed to the sands but for the creatures easing him down. He curled into a straining knot, shuddering and twitching.

A huge fist closed about Kiska’s cloak and armour from the rear, lifting her from her feet. ‘What is this?’ Korus boomed. ‘What have you done to him?’

Leoman’s gear fell to the sands as he grasped the demon’s arm. ‘We know nothing of this!’ he yelled.

Kiska stared, horrified.
Gods! Have I killed him? Was this the Enchantress’s scheme all along?

Then Tayschrenn screamed. He threw his head back and howled his agony. His back arched as if it would snap. He screamed until his breath failed and he fell limp, immobile.

Kiska did not even struggle as the hand swept her spinning through the air. She crashed into the shingle and tumbled over and over, gouging a trail. Then Leoman was there wiping the sand from her face. ‘Are you all right, girl? Speak to me.’

‘I killed him,’ she moaned. ‘Me! It was to be
me
all along.’

‘We don’t know …’

A large shadow covered them and a voice snarled, ‘Take them to the caves!’

Tyranny remains because the weak and fearful seek it.

Letters of the Philosophical Society

Darujhistan

THE PASSAGES ORCHID
led Antsy and Corien through could only in the coarsest sense be named tunnels. As far into the distance as Antsy could see, the naked rock canopy was intricately carved to imitate a wide forest. Branches glittered with precious stones and gems which had been set as if mimicking berries or flowers. They passed rooms where wrecked furniture carved from rare woods lay like abandoned works of sculpture. Such wood alone would make Antsy wealthy beyond measure. That such riches lay about ignored within these upper reaches of the Spawn told Antsy a great deal about the character of those who occupied the place.
After different coin, this lot
.

Here Morn met them. He emerged from the gloom and waited as they advanced. At his feet lay a pile of equipment: their gear. Antsy belted his sword and long-knife then shouldered his pannier, all the while eyeing the strange entity. He’d even recovered their food bags. ‘Thanks,’ Antsy said, meaning it. The shade had very probably saved their lives.

The ghost bowed to Orchid. ‘I could not have you going hungry.’

‘We’re still for the Gap,’ she warned him, firm.

He gestured ahead, inviting them onward. ‘Of course.’

‘Here is a question for you, Antsy,’ Corien said after a time, his voice low, as they walked along. ‘If we’re supposed to be going to this “Gap”, why are we heading up?’